


just to make you feel right

by iodhadh



Series: out of the dust; into the dark [6]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Aftercare, Breathplay, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Face-Fucking, M/M, Rope Bondage, Trans Zevran
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-30 14:59:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6428917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iodhadh/pseuds/iodhadh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zevran wants to be tied up. Drust is more than happy to oblige—repeatedly, at length, and with increasing levels of complexity. Still, he didn't quite anticipate just how far things would go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	just to make you feel right

**Author's Note:**

> One ought to be the change one wishes to see in the world, as the saying goes. Apparently in this case that's over 5k of Zevran/Brosca rope bondage porn.
> 
> Endless thanks and/or blame for this one goes to Toft, who was exceedingly helpful with brainstorming, and also bore my complaints, flailing, and assorted mutterings with patience and enthusiasm. Thanks also to the brave soldiers in the War Room on Twitter, who kept me on task as I argued my way through the long scene. Friends, I salute you all.
> 
> The title for this one is from Kids of 88's _Just a Little Bit_ , which is a frankly excellent Zevran sex song.
> 
> In case you missed it up in the tags, Zevran is trans in this story, and since he and Drust are already involved as of the start of this fic there's no discussion of it herein (if you're interested in that, it's approximately midway through [if you dare, come a little closer](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5558480), but you don't need to read that for this. This is just porn).

The first time Drust slept with Zevran was unexpected: the culmination of weeks of casual flirting, come abruptly to fruition. He had thought about it, certainly—often, and occasionally at times when Zevran’s alluring good looks were an inconvenient distraction—but it had been a restrained sort of thinking kept deliberately in check by the uncertainty of the dance between them. He had imagined without planning, and when it had finally happened it had been driven more by instinct than forethought.

The second time was a different story.

They had avoided any awkwardness in the aftermath by the simple expedient of Zevran being shameless. Drust was more than happy to follow his lead on that, and they spent their nights at camp much as they had before. But there was intent now behind the assassin’s innuendoes and suggestive looks—an open flirtation that teased Drust with its promise, anticipation making for a constant buzz under his skin. Once they were into the safer territory north of the Hinterlands, once they had a chance to stop and resupply, he had wasted no time in taking up that unspoken invitation.

As soon as Drust closed the tent flap behind them Zevran laid claim to his lap, winding deft fingers into the base of his braid and pulling him up into a hungry kiss. Drust let his hands settle, thumbing over the curve of Zevran’s waist, tugging him in against his chest, pretending with a crushing grip that he could make an illusion of the space between them. Arching into his touch, Zevran pressed himself nearer still.

“Oh, my sweet,” he said against Drust’s mouth. “The things I would have you do to me.”

That was as good an opening as any. “Yeah,” Drust said between kisses, “we should talk about that.”

Abruptly Zevran sat back. “You didn’t invite me in here only to tell me you’ve changed your mind, did you?”

Drust laughed. “Nothing like that,” he said. “Relax. We just need to talk first. We should have last time, probably, but we both got carried away, and—well. No harm done.”

Zevran had settled in his hold; now he draped his arms over Drust’s shoulders, smiling down at him. “None at all,” he said. “Very well, amante, what is it you wish to talk about?”

“I want to know what you like,” Drust said. “What is it you want me to do exactly? If we’re going to keep doing this—and I want to, for as long as you’re interested—it’s better to discuss it, don’t you think?”

Zevran huffed out a brief chuckle, nodding, and tipped his head forward to press a kiss to Drust’s temple. “I like when you take control, as you did last time. Pull on my hair, push me down… leave marks,” he added, rolling his hips against Drust’s hands. “I want them in places I cannot hide.”

Drust groaned, turning his face into Zevran’s neck and leaving a biting kiss. “Good,” he said, “that’s—that’s good. I think I can manage that. Anything else? Anything I should avoid?”

Zevran hesitated briefly. “I would prefer you not touch my chest,” he said. “Nothing else comes particularly to mind. I will certainly inform you if anything you do displeases me.”

“Have you used a watchword before?” Drust said.

For a moment Zevran looked startled. “I—yes, occasionally. You would prefer that?”

“We should have one,” Drust said firmly, “if you want me in control—really in control, I mean, the way I like. Is that what you want?” Zevran nodded, and Drust pressed a soothing hand to the base of his spine. “Just one more thing, then. Were you serious about the rope?”

At that Zevran’s uncertainty melted away, and he crowded in close. “Of course I was serious about the rope,” he purred. “Does this mean you’re finally going to tie me up, my sweet?”

“Give me a watchword,” Drust said, “and I will.”

Zevran barely paused to think. “Corvi,” he said.

“Corvi,” Drust repeated, to Zevran’s nod, and grinned. “Good. Now let’s get started.”

He knotted ropes around Zevran’s wrists and ankles with a brisk efficiency that owed more to his time in the Carta than to games with past lovers. Zevran was surprised, then impressed, testing the ropes with a hazy look in his eyes. “Very nice,” he said, tilting his head up for a kiss as Drust pushed him down on his back. “I don’t think I could get out of these.”

“Try it,” Drust said, biting a mark onto his collar. “See how well you do.”

In the end Zevran did manage to free his wrists, taking advantage of Drust’s distraction as he worked his ass open one finger at a time. Drust pinned him down with one hand and lined himself up, pressing into him with a long, slow slide that had Zevran bucking underneath him before it was half over. “I guess I asked for that,” he said. “Next time I’m tying your arms behind your back.”

Zevran spent the next three days toying with the rope marks on his wrists. He did nothing at all to hide them, or the bruises that bloomed all down his throat.

True to his word, Drust tied his wrists behind him the next time; he also, for good measure, wrapped the ropes around his chest, crisscrossing his body with careful restraints that held his arms firmly in place. “How’s this?” he said, tugging along a line of cord. “Not too uncomfortable?”

“No more so than I could wish for,” Zevran said, his eyes hooded.

“Good,” Drust said, tangling a hand in the knots at his sternum and hauling him in for a kiss. “Because now I can do this.”

“You can do more than that, I hope,” Zevran said breathlessly, his legs falling open as he pushed himself into Drust’s lap.

“Oh, yes,” Drust murmured, and guided him down onto his cock.

At the guest house in Orzammar he tied Zevran’s wrists and ankles to the posts of the bed, making him strain and gasp as he tugged helplessly against the ropes. Drust settled between his knees, biting at his inner thighs until they were covered in bruises, burying his face against his pubic mound and chuckling deep in his throat at the noise Zevran made when Drust took his clit into his mouth. He wrapped his hands around Zevran’s hips, fingers digging in until they too had left their marks, and worked him over relentlessly until he let out a shout and clamped his legs around Drust’s head.

He sat up when Zevran released him, cracking his neck and wiping his mouth with the back of one hand, and grinned at him. “Fuck,” Zevran groaned, head thumping back down onto the pillow. “Oh, I want you—please, my sweet—”

Drust straddled his waist, his cock pressing hard and full against Zevran’s stomach as he leaned down to kiss him. “Should I untie you?”

Zevran shook his head immediately. “Let me,” he said between kisses, fingers flexing uselessly as he pulled at his restraints, “I want to suck your cock, amante, let me—”

Drust breathed. “Yeah,” he said. “Stone below, sweetheart, yes.” He shifted up to position his hips over Zevran’s face, bracing himself one-armed against the headboard and taking his hand. “Pinch me if you need me to stop, all right?”

“Whatever you want,” Zevran said. “Just, _please_ —”

Drust pushed gently into his mouth, and Zevran moaned and opened up to him. “You can do better than that, amante, _harder_ ,” he begged, his voice half-muffled as he tongued at Drust’s cock with a desperate hunger. Drust bit his lip and bore down on him; Zevran swallowed around him with a choked noise and a jerk of his hips, his body stretched taut beneath him as Drust fucked his face.

He undid the knots afterward, chafing at Zevran’s wrists and ankles where the ropes had bit deep. “We need to get better rope,” he said, and Zevran muttered a soft agreement. Drust kissed his palm and smiled. “I’ll see what I can find.”

He helped Zevran turn over, working the kinks from his shoulders with gentle hands; Zevran hummed happily, stretching out under his touch, and Drust brushed his fingers through his hair and leaned down to nose along his jaw. “How was that?” he murmured.

“Good. Very, very good,” Zevran said, a sleepy smile playing over his lips. His voice sounded wrecked, and Drust had to bite back a moan as his cock stirred with renewed interest.

“Is your throat all right?” he said instead, running his knuckles softly along Zevran’s neck.

He felt the scrape in Zevran’s chuckle, and then the elf turned over, winding his arms around Drust’s shoulders and pulling him down on top of him. “It is sore,” he said. “I like it. Every time I speak I will think of your cock in my mouth.”

Drust’s mind, very briefly, went blank. “Oh. Well,” he said. “I suppose I can live with that.”

Zevran’s answering laugh was raw and heated, and Drust took a moment to reflect on how prominently that would feature in his upcoming fantasies before he lost himself in a kiss.

The braided rope he bought in the Commons was soft, pliant, and very strong. He stowed it at the bottom of his pack with his personal gear, and they made their way to Redcliffe. It wasn’t until they were coming back from Haven that he finally got the chance to pull it out; it ran through Zevran’s fingers like water, pooling in coils on the floor of the tent.

“This is beautiful,” he said, pressing it back into Drust’s hands with a laughing glance. “How will you leave me rope marks now?”

“I’m sure I can make it up to you somehow,” Drust said, circling his fingers around Zevran’s wrist with a grip just this side of painful. “Or I could try very hard, and leave marks anyway.”

Zevran shuddered, and Drust nudged his legs apart and laid him out on the bedroll.

Later, with Zevran’s arms bound up above his head and his knees over Drust’s shoulders and the hot red welts on his ass and thighs near-glowing in the lamplight, Drust bent down to bite a line across his ribcage and said, “I miss having a headboard to tie you to.”

Zevran let out a breathless laugh that trailed off into a whine. “The trials of life on the road,” he said, arching his back into the snap of Drust’s hips. “I think—ah—having a proper bed is perhaps the least of our worries.”

“I think,” Drust said, palms sliding along Zevran’s spine to restlessly tug him closer, “that when this is all over, I’m—fuck—I’m renting us a room, tying you to the mattress, and not letting you leave for a week.”

Zevran’s only answer was a wordless cry as he shook himself apart around him.

The new ropes went unused for the next three weeks as they busied themselves with Arl Eamon’s recovery and their last business in the Bannorn and the calling of the Landsmeet at Denerim. They had been days in the city already—embroiled in diplomatic overtures and discreet investigations and Loghain’s ever-present machinations—before Drust had the chance to snatch so much as an hour to himself. And as if all that wasn’t enough, now they had reason to believe the Queen was in danger. He could feel a headache beginning to build at his temples.

Released from the meeting with the promise that he would meet Erlina outside Howe’s estate come morning, Drust made his way back to the room set aside for him and Zevran. They had given up on even the slightest pretence that all their nights weren’t spent together; it had been over a month since they had so much as pitched separate tents. Zevran had made no mention of changing the nature of their arrangement, but his emotions had always seemed so plain to Drust—now more than ever—and the nameless relief that caught in his throat at seeing his lover stretched out on their bed was matched perfectly to the quiet happiness in Zevran’s eyes as he lifted his head from a book.

Drust heaved a grateful sigh, swinging the door shut behind him, and Zevran’s expression shifted from welcome to rueful commiseration. “That bad, was it?”

“And here I thought Orzammar was a nightmare,” Drust said, kicking off his boots and yanking the tie from his braid. “I need a vacation. Somewhere with no darkspawn, demons, bandits, deepstalkers, irritatingly persistent wolves, or arrogant fools with designs on a crown they have to kill for. Someplace warm, too, while I’m wishing.”

“Well, I can’t promise the rest of it, but Antiva _is_ warm,” Zevran said with a laugh, setting his book aside and hauling himself upright. “And I think I can probably arrange a lack of deepstalkers.”

“Good enough for me,” Drust said. He began working his fingers through his braid, groaning and sitting down on the edge of the bed; with a noise of sympathy, Zevran took over, gently untangling his hair from itself until it lay flat against his back. Drust sighed, leaning back into his hands, and let himself relax. “Thanks.”

“Anytime, my sweet,” Zevran said, sliding his arms around his shoulders and pulling him back into a kiss.

Drust smiled into it, turning to face him, and pushed Zevran down onto the bed. “So,” he said, settling the length of his body, “what are you reading?”

“Nothing important,” Zevran said. He slid his knee up between Drust’s legs, hands coming to rest on his hips. “Just a book of poetry I found on one of the shelves.”

“How would you feel about interrupting it?”

Zevran gasped in exaggerated horror, but did nothing to hide the grin tugging at his lips. “My dear Grey Warden,” he said primly, arching his back, “what exactly are you insinuating?”

Drust laughed. “Nothing,” he said. “That would involve making implications. I’m just asking in explicit terms if you want me to tie you up and fuck you.”

“Oh, well, in that case,” Zevran said, and shoved the book off the bed.

Drust stripped him slowly, tracing his fingers over every inch of exposed skin: they had time to themselves and a roof over their heads, and he was damn well going to take advantage. Zevran was warm and eager under his hands, his body moving in little jolts, his grip more insistent by the minute. Drust let him undo his buttons, shrugged out of his shirt and slid his pants from his hips, gathered his hair into a loose knot and leaned down to kiss his way across Zevran’s hipbones. “I’ll be right back,” he said. “Just let me get the rope.”

Zevran groaned, but let him go. “Please, my sweet,” he said. “I _want_ you.”

“You’ll have me,” Drust promised, and went to dig the ropes from his pack.

He directed Zevran onto his knees and settled behind him, wrapping a length of cord around his ankles and knotting it firmly. “Hands,” he said. Immediately Zevran crossed his wrists at the base of his spine, his breath coming faster; Drust bound them securely as well, weaving the ropes into themselves, then worked his way up Zevran’s arms in criss-crossing lines that reached to his elbows. The practice he’d had in the last few months had expanded his repertoire considerably, and there was artistry to the arrangement now, a beauty in the bindings themselves that was more than just what they could be used for. Zevran was gorgeous in rope—gorgeous with knots marching the length of his arms, a stark cotton cream against the brown of his skin; truth be told he was always gorgeous, but this, now, was something special.

“You are taking far too long at this, amante,” Zevran said, his casual tone only slightly belied by the flutter in his voice. Drust didn’t react, tying off the end of the rope with steady hands, and then reached up with the same implacable calmness to wind his fingers into Zevran’s hair.

“You’re being mouthy,” he said, and yanked.

Zevran gasped, momentarily needy, then drew himself back under control. “Don’t pretend you don’t like it, my sweet,” he said, tipping his head forward in defiance of Drust’s hold. “It has never fooled me.”

Drust bit his lip against a laugh, tightening his grasp. “That so.”

“Not for a second.”

“Lucky for me that I’ve never tried to hide it,” Drust said, forcing his head back again. Zevran let out another gasp, and Drust ran his free hand up his throat, trailing along his jaw and dragging his thumb across his lips. “I love it when you’re mouthy,” he said, pressing a heated kiss below Zevran’s ear. “I like it better when I can make you shut up.”

He punctuated this with another yank on his hair, and for a moment Zevran’s only response was a low groan and a ragged exhale; then he forced himself up, spine curving against Drust’s grip on him, and said, “You are going to have to do better than that.”

Drust chuckled and tugged him back into a kiss—filthy, open-mouthed, just a touch of pent-up frustration bleeding through in the points of his teeth on Zevran’s lips. “Don’t you worry,” he said. “I’ve got a few ideas. It’s hard to talk when your throat is occupied, wouldn’t you say?”

For a moment Zevran looked too dazed to answer, his gaze fixed on Drust’s mouth, and then his eyes widened and he made a sound that was very nearly a whine. “Oh,” he said faintly, and licked his lips, “I imagine that would make it rather difficult, yes.”

Drust laughed. “I thought so.”

Zevran nearly buckled when he released him, and Drust smoothed a hand down his side before he got off the bed, reaching into an exterior pocket of his pack for the little metal ball he had picked up in the markets of Orzammar. It wasn’t anything fancy, just a child’s toy, but it would ring when struck—or dropped from Zevran’s bound hands to the bed—and would serve far more efficiently than a pinch to the wrist. He tucked it into Zevran’s palm and folded his fingers firmly around it. “If you need me to stop,” he said.

“I need you to start,” Zevran retorted. The pause had apparently allowed him to recover himself somewhat.

Well, that would change.

Drust shifted to the other side of the bed, standing upright in front of his lover and once again tangling a hand in his hair. Zevran’s eyes went a bit hazy at that, and he turned his head towards Drust’s arm, leaning into him seemingly without realizing it. It was a tiny motion, barely a brush, but Drust’s heart ached at the sight of it, at the pure unfaltering trust that would see an assassin willingly allow himself to be tied up and led around by his touch. If he could never have anything more than this, if Zevran never found it in himself to give voice to the emotions that rushed between them like a current—Stone below, this would be enough.

“Well?” Zevran demanded. “Are you going to fuck my face or not?”

 _Oh, yes_ , Drust thought. This would be more than enough.

“You still haven’t learned a thing about patience,” he said instead, and tugged him down to his cock.

He was already half erect, the anticipation of tying Zevran up all it took to get him going. Now with Zevran’s lips on him, his tongue dragging broad swipes along the shaft, the soft noise he made as Drust pushed his thumb between his teeth and forced his mouth open—he could feel himself swelling to hardness and he _wanted,_ so much, like nothing else in the world would ever come close. He pressed forward; Zevran took him inch by inch, drawing a groan from his throat and making his hips buck. By this point he knew well that Zevran wanted him rough, and he didn’t hold back.

It would never stop thrilling him how eager Zevran was. He took Drust’s thrusts with a desperate enthusiasm, lips stretched around his cock, eyes closed in concentration, every line of his body pushing for closeness, for _more_. Drust ran his hands gently through his hair even as he picked up the pace, and Zevran made a choked noise and bore down on him, his face pressing against Drust’s pelvis.

“Fuck,” Drust said, briefly closing his eyes against the sight. “Fuck, Zevran, you’re so good—by the ancestors, sweetheart—”

Zevran made another sound, almost a whimper, and turned his head to look up at him. His eyes were glazed, his face flushed, his mouth working hungrily at Drust’s dick. He looked utterly debauched. Drust moaned and pulled him in harder.

Zevran’s breath was coming in minute gasps now, and the colour on his cheeks had crept down his neck and shoulders. Drust curved over him, tracing a hand down his back; his spine stood out stark against straining muscles, framed by his tied-back arms and the pale ropes that bound them. He was trembling beneath Drust’s fingers, his ribcage moving in little involuntary spasms, and with a sudden clarity Drust recognized the signs of lungs demanding air. He pulled back.

“It’s all right, sweetheart, breathe,” he said.

But rather than the sudden inhale he’d expected, Zevran just made a frustrated sound and swallowed him down again without a moment’s hesitation. At the edge of his vision Drust saw him jerk decisively against the ropes that bound his wrists—one hand still firmly wrapped around the little silver ball Drust had tucked there. For a moment he just stared, his mind slow to catch up, but then it hit him in a rush and he looked down at Zevran’s face as desire tore through him.

“Oh,” he said weakly. “That’s—oh. Fuck. _Fuck_.” He circled his hand around Zevran’s throat, pressing experimentally, and Zevran visibly shuddered. Drust could barely hear himself over the pounding of his pulse in his ears. “You like this, don’t you?”

His only reply was a cut-off, desperate noise as he forced himself closer, but that was all Drust needed. The swell of Zevran’s throat filling under his hand was obscene.

“Fuck,” he repeated, and snapped his hips forward.

Zevran took him eagerly, letting out a string of helpless moans, catching his breath in little hitches whenever he had the chance. Drust kept a hand around his neck, putting gentle pressure on his throat, feeling the vibrations of every sound he made all the way down to his core. He was so close, so _close_ , and Zevran was everything, all he’d ever wanted, the heat of his mouth and the need in his body—nothing had ever made Drust feel like this before, like he would rend the whole world apart just to have him, and have him, and have him—

He came hard with a shaky cry, gripping Zevran’s hair and yanking him close as he spilled himself down his throat. Drust could feel him swallowing around his length—could feel nothing else, for a moment, mind gone blank under overwhelming sensation—and without pausing to think he squeezed briefly, fingers tight on Zevran’s neck. Zevran choked on a moan, shaking with desperation, and with his head spinning Drust released him, guiding him off his cock and helping him unbend his spine.

Zevran’s mouth was wrecked, lips slick with saliva and precum and swollen to fullness by the enthusiasm of his efforts. His eyes fluttered open, hazy, pupils blown, and Drust’s unsteady legs gave out beneath him: he sank to his knees, pulling him down into a kiss that Zevran answered with fierce, shameless need.

He was still breathing shallowly when Drust released him, as if reluctant to give up the burn in his lungs. It took him three tries to make his voice work.

“Please,” he gasped, rougher than Drust had ever heard him, “please, my sweet, please, I want—”

“Tell me,” Drust said, stroking soft fingers down the column of his throat.

Zevran shuddered at that, a tiny mewl escaping his lips. “Give me your hands. Choke me again. Please, amore, I want you so much, I _need_ you—”

Drust cut him off with a kiss. “I’ve got you,” he said, shifting to stand. Zevran whined at that, but Drust steadied him with a touch to his arm. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said, and resettled on his knees behind him, arms sliding around his body to pull him close against his chest. “Tip your head back.”

Zevran obeyed, without question or hesitation, leaning against Drust’s shoulder. He was tense in Drust’s hold, arms pinned between them and straining unconsciously against the ropes, but Drust lifted a hand to wrap it loosely around his neck and the raw edges seemed to go out of him, replaced with tight, trembling desire. “There we go,” Drust said softly, skimming his hand down Zevran’s stomach and coming to rest between his legs. “I told you, sweetheart, I’ve got you.”

He pressed his fingers against Zevran’s clit, cutting off his answering cry with a firm squeeze to his throat. “Oh, you want it bad, don’t you?” he breathed, turning his head to kiss a line down Zevran’s jaw. “You’re so wet, sweetheart, just feel that.” He rocked his hand down with a smooth glide, skirting around the edges of his entrance, making him jolt against his touch. “You want more?”

“Please,” Zevran gasped.

Drust didn’t make him ask a second time. Some nights he would have—would have teased him repeatedly until he was too keyed up to think straight, let alone form proper sentences—but now he found that there was nothing in the world he wanted more than to give Zevran his every desire. He pushed inside him, curling his fingers against his walls, and Zevran bucked against his hand with another quickly cut-off shout. He was close already, Drust could tell, just minutes away from release if he worked him right, and after all this time together he was as fluent in the language of Zevran’s body as the Dust Town cant he had grown up with. He would not allow his lover to go unsatisfied.

He kept his hand on Zevran’s neck, varying the pressure—never cutting off his air entirely, never letting him forget that it was there. Zevran jerked and shook with his every move; when the thrust of two fingers became too easy, Drust added a third, then a fourth. As Zevran began to clench around him, he ground the heel of his palm down against his clit, biting a kiss into his shoulder. “That’s it, sweetheart, come for me,” he said, and tightened his grip on his throat.

Zevran made no sound as his orgasm crashed through him, but the bow of his back spoke more eloquently than any words. Drust kept him anchored, stroking him through it till his hips stopped shuddering, then slid his hand free and eased off his throat. Zevran inhaled sharply, chest heaving, and collapsed boneless against him; Drust held him carefully until his breathing began to calm.

When Zevran seemed aware enough to respond, Drust shifted his hold to something more supportive and nudged him upright. “I’m going to let you go,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere, I just need to untie you. Is that okay?”

There was a pause as Zevran let the words filter through his mind, then he nodded, sitting up with a soft whine. “Shh,” Drust said, running his hands down his arms to begin picking the knots apart. “I’m right here. Just a few more moments and you can relax.”

He made quick work of the rope, releasing his arms and rubbing them down briefly before freeing his ankles. Zevran let out another whine as his shoulders straightened, and Drust dug his thumbs into his back—kneading the soreness from stiff muscles, working his way from his collar to his wrists, checking him over for any sign of chafing or numbness. There was none, his skin marked only by the imprints of the rope and the tension of holding his body in one position for so long. His left hand was still clenched around the metal ball Drust had given him; Drust removed it, unfolding his fingers and massaging them gently, then placed a kiss on his knuckles.

“Lie down,” he said, settling his hand at the base of Zevran’s spine. “You need to stretch your legs.”

Zevran obeyed without protest, stretching out on his stomach with a low groan as Drust unbent his knees. He checked his legs over as he had his arms, rubbing his ankles where the ropes had pressed in and working the stress from the muscles of his calves. Zevran relaxed under his touch, his breathing deep and even, and finally Drust was satisfied. He laid down and opened his arms. “Come here.”

Zevran curled into him immediately, burying his face in Drust’s shoulder with a shaky exhale. Drust combed his fingers through his hair and kissed his crown. “You doing okay, sweetheart? Can you speak yet?”

Zevran nodded, and Drust could hear the click of his throat as he swallowed once and wet his lips. “Yes,” he said. His voice was ragged and blissful. “Fantastic, actually. Just tired.”

“That’s fine,” Drust said, and kissed him again. “You don’t have to go anywhere. How’s your throat?”

For a moment Zevran didn’t respond; then he let out a rough chuckle. Drust’s heart gave a happy flutter at the sound, and he pulled back just enough to meet Zevran’s eyes. The elf was smiling, sated. He looked beautiful.

“What are you expecting, my sweet?” he said, lifting a hand to his neck. “It hurts, of course. I’m glad of it.” He sighed contentedly and settled back down. “What you did—it was magnificent.”

“Well—good,” Drust said, arms curving around him. “It’s not too bad, is it? Nothing damaged?”

Zevran made a faint noise, something at the intersection of amused and exasperated. “Are you going to fuss over me every time we do this?”

It was intended as a joke, but Drust couldn’t bear to answer in kind. “Yes,” he said, tipping his head down to kiss Zevran softly. “You know I will.”

Zevran blinked up at him, a palpable warmth in his honey-brown eyes. “I know,” he said. “I wouldn’t ask just anyone to choke me, after all.” Drust laughed and kissed him again, and Zevran hummed into it, draping his arm over his waist. “Really, amante, I’m fine. Everything feels as it should.”

“Okay,” Drust said. “We’ll check again in the morning. Do you need anything else now?”

Zevran considered for a moment. “Some water might be nice,” he said. “But… not yet. Just—just stay with me for now.”

Even if he had wanted to, there was no power on Thedas that could have compelled Drust to refuse him that. “Always, sweetheart,” he said. “Rest. I’m here.”

Zevran made a soft sound of acknowledgement and burrowed into his arms. Drust wound his fingers through his hair once more, and soon Zevran was dozing against him, his body languid and totally relaxed. Drust listened to his breathing for a while, reassuring himself that it was normal, and slowly let his own come to match it.

Soon he would have to get up: to get water for Zevran, to pull the blankets over them, to check him over one more time before they slept. Tomorrow he would take a team out to Howe’s estate to rescue the Queen—and, no doubt, deal with whatever complications they found there. And after that, more politics, and the Landsmeet yet to come, and eventually, the Blight. There was so much still to attend to.

Soon. Soon, but not yet. For now, his whole world had narrowed to their bed. His other responsibilities would wait; Zevran needed him more. And if that wasn’t what he’d expected when they’d begun this, well—it was only because it was better.


End file.
